[groaning] The sadist has water in his hand. His hand is enough just for one. His chair stands beside that of my father’s. (There is something loving about that gesture.) I am, as ever, unevened, the product of their endearment. In turn, I flush out their indications, with animal regard - me, the dangle, the imaginer, facing all this dependency. My very life closes his hand, and I am around him, the philosopher, like an insect. I loved how small it all was.